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kat_lair***
Title: things which enclose me
Author: Mistress Kat /![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kat_lair
Fandom: Person of Interest
Pairing: Finch/Reese
Genre: Angst, pre-slash, d/s themes
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1,371
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing.
Summary: Nobody touches John Reese.
Author notes: This was written forsamparker as a Fandom Stocking gift. Their list of fic likes was the perfect reason to write subby, angsty, touch-starved John Reese. Title is from somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond by e.e.cummings because I’m a terrible romantic. Many thanks to margaret_r for beta.
Nobody touches John Reese. They hit him and kick him, they cling to his coat in terror, brush past him on the street like they know he is nothing, push hard fingers into hard-earned wounds and dig for secrets, spread him out and fuck him, hoping some of them will spill out.
Nobody touches John Reese without an ulterior motive, without an agenda. Not since Jessica, and he knows that were she alive now she wouldn’t either, not after what he has done.
What he has become.
John understands. Some days he can barely stand to touch himself. He cleans his wounds pretending it’s someone else’s blood he’s wiping away, someone else’s skin he’s stitching together. And if he is less careful about that than he could be then who is to know. No one who sees John’s flesh, who uses his muscle and sinew, will care.
Or so he thinks.
The first time Harold puts a hand on his arm it’s only John’s extensive training that stops him from stiffening, or worse, flinching away. He forces himself to stay relaxed but not too still, to breathe normally, to see what Harold will do.
Harold does nothing. He simply points at a photo on the board and continues with his explanation of their current number, his fingers now tapping at the picture, then his phone, as he talks.
John blinks. The casual touch had clearly just been to get his attention, more than likely unconsciously made. John is not disappointed. He’s… surprised maybe, but even that’s inconsequential. Nothing.
The next time Harold grabs his arm on the street to point out a new Moroccan restaurant, his fingers briefly taking hold of John’s coat sleeve before slipping away. Then it’s a hand on his shoulder as Harold leans close to look at the computer screen, his whole chest pressing against John’s back for a few seconds as he reaches over him to type something, too impatient to wait until John has actually vacated the chair.
He can feel the warmth of it for hours afterwards, covering him like a blanket that’s somehow too heavy yet comforting at the same time. And no matter how much he twitches, he can’t seem to throw it off.
After that it escalates; a brush of fingers here, a casual nudge to the elbow there, the steady line of heat of Harold standing too close without even thinking twice about it, like he doesn’t know how easily John could break him if he wanted to.
He doesn’t. Though pretty soon he starts wanting to break anything and anyone else Harold touches.
John watches his fingers when he types, the quick, accurate tap-tap-tap of language he’s barely begun to understand, and he wants to rip out the keyboard and lay himself down on the desk instead and beg for Harold to rewrite his code until he’s whole again, until he’s fixed.
He thinks if anyone can do it, Harold can. John doesn’t ask though, he’s got that much sense left in him still.
Harold is good at touch. John has seen him use it when assuming a role, conveying vulnerability or arrogance, interest or indifference with his body as well as any Agency trained undercover operative. Better even because he doesn’t seem to do it deliberately. There’s no forward planning, it just… happens
Like it does with John.
For a long while he’s suspicious of Harold’s motivations, wondering what long con he’s playing so subtly, manipulating John’s reactions, his emotions, with a skill that is as disconcerting as it is appealing. When he finally realises that there is no reason, the disappointment of it coats his mouth with bitter ashes, sits on his tongue like a pill that won’t melt.
The truth is that John wants Harold to want something from him. The truth is that Harold doesn’t. He wants nothing more than what John is already giving.
By the time John is bleeding to death courtesy of his former colleagues he is selfishly grateful about the prospect of doing so in Harold’s arms, on the backseat of his car, bracketed by his hands as he pushes the gurney into the morgue.
By the time Harold stops the bomb strapped to his chest John wants him to just keep on digging through wires and cloth and bone until he gets to John’s heart, to just take what is already his.
He is so focussed on it that he doesn’t even notice the way Harold’s hands shake as he helps John get rid of the vest, his breath coming in harsh staccato that sounds like ‘Christ, Christ, Christ’, a prayer huffed out at every exhale. They make it out of the building, evading cops and taking a long route home, changing taxis three times to be sure. The last cab drops them six blocks from the library and they are both exhausted by the time they get there; Harold from the sheer physical effort of the long walk and the longer day preceding it, and John from being away so long he wants nothing more than to fall to his knees next to the stacks and press his face against the dusty book spines.
“Here,” Harold says, and his hands are on John’s back again, pushing him toward the side room with a bed, gentle and insistent and John goes, of course he does, wherever Harold’s touch leads him.
The bed sheets smell clean and John doesn’t want to dirty them so he sits down hesitantly, folding his hands into his lap to keep them out of the way. He knows he’s zoning, body and mind pushed just that tiny bit too far today, and while his eyes track Harold’s movements across the room he doesn’t really take in their meaning until it’s too late.
“Alright, let’s just…” Harold says, pulling John’s coat off his shoulders, tossing it over a nearby chair. Then his hands return, fingers hesitating on John’s shirt buttons, eyes flicking up to meet his.
John holds his breath. It takes forever for him to understand that Harold is waiting for a permission because the whole concept is so ridiculous, as if John would refuse him anything, least of all this. He exhales shakily, feeling big and clumsy under Harold’s deft fingers, and nods.
Harold looks at him for a few seconds more and then nods too though mostly to himself it seems before dropping his gaze John’s shirt buttons, easing them through the eyelets one by one. John watches Harold’s face, mapping each bruise and abrasion he finds by his expression, hard and angry at first, and then soft, soft, soft, full of something fierce and helpless that makes John’s spine straighten despite his exhaustion.
“John,” Harold says. “John.” He lays his hands flat against John’s chest like a benediction, like a promise, and John shudders.
“Stay here,” Harold tells him, getting up with difficulty from where he’s been sitting next to him on the bed, body twisted awkwardly in a way it no longer wants to bend. John fights the urge to say he can get it, whatever it is, and stays.
Harold is back a few minutes later with a damp cloth and a first aid kit. Methodically, he cleans and dresses John’s injuries, stripping off his shirt entirely in the process.
It’s almost too much; Harold’s hands all over his chest and back, knuckles brushing against his stomach, fingers palpating his ribs, and John fights to stay still, his breath hitching on a swallowed moan.
“It’s alright, John,” Harold says, “it’s alright.” He touches the back of his neck then, a firm deliberate press of his palm that settles on John’s skin like a brand, and John falls to his knees, folds down to the floor, his head coming to rest against Harold’s legs.
“I’ve got you now,” Harold says, his voice shaking, hand never leaving the back of John’s neck while the fingers of the other one card through his hair in slow steady strokes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t… But I’ve got you now.”
John buries his face in Harold’s lap and lets himself believe, lets himself trust, what Harold is saying, not just with his words but with his touch.
***
Title: things which enclose me
Author: Mistress Kat /
kat_lairFandom: Person of Interest
Pairing: Finch/Reese
Genre: Angst, pre-slash, d/s themes
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1,371
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing.
Summary: Nobody touches John Reese.
Author notes: This was written for
samparker as a Fandom Stocking gift. Their list of fic likes was the perfect reason to write subby, angsty, touch-starved John Reese. Title is from somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond by e.e.cummings because I’m a terrible romantic. Many thanks to margaret_r for beta.Nobody touches John Reese. They hit him and kick him, they cling to his coat in terror, brush past him on the street like they know he is nothing, push hard fingers into hard-earned wounds and dig for secrets, spread him out and fuck him, hoping some of them will spill out.
Nobody touches John Reese without an ulterior motive, without an agenda. Not since Jessica, and he knows that were she alive now she wouldn’t either, not after what he has done.
What he has become.
John understands. Some days he can barely stand to touch himself. He cleans his wounds pretending it’s someone else’s blood he’s wiping away, someone else’s skin he’s stitching together. And if he is less careful about that than he could be then who is to know. No one who sees John’s flesh, who uses his muscle and sinew, will care.
Or so he thinks.
The first time Harold puts a hand on his arm it’s only John’s extensive training that stops him from stiffening, or worse, flinching away. He forces himself to stay relaxed but not too still, to breathe normally, to see what Harold will do.
Harold does nothing. He simply points at a photo on the board and continues with his explanation of their current number, his fingers now tapping at the picture, then his phone, as he talks.
John blinks. The casual touch had clearly just been to get his attention, more than likely unconsciously made. John is not disappointed. He’s… surprised maybe, but even that’s inconsequential. Nothing.
The next time Harold grabs his arm on the street to point out a new Moroccan restaurant, his fingers briefly taking hold of John’s coat sleeve before slipping away. Then it’s a hand on his shoulder as Harold leans close to look at the computer screen, his whole chest pressing against John’s back for a few seconds as he reaches over him to type something, too impatient to wait until John has actually vacated the chair.
He can feel the warmth of it for hours afterwards, covering him like a blanket that’s somehow too heavy yet comforting at the same time. And no matter how much he twitches, he can’t seem to throw it off.
After that it escalates; a brush of fingers here, a casual nudge to the elbow there, the steady line of heat of Harold standing too close without even thinking twice about it, like he doesn’t know how easily John could break him if he wanted to.
He doesn’t. Though pretty soon he starts wanting to break anything and anyone else Harold touches.
John watches his fingers when he types, the quick, accurate tap-tap-tap of language he’s barely begun to understand, and he wants to rip out the keyboard and lay himself down on the desk instead and beg for Harold to rewrite his code until he’s whole again, until he’s fixed.
He thinks if anyone can do it, Harold can. John doesn’t ask though, he’s got that much sense left in him still.
Harold is good at touch. John has seen him use it when assuming a role, conveying vulnerability or arrogance, interest or indifference with his body as well as any Agency trained undercover operative. Better even because he doesn’t seem to do it deliberately. There’s no forward planning, it just… happens
Like it does with John.
For a long while he’s suspicious of Harold’s motivations, wondering what long con he’s playing so subtly, manipulating John’s reactions, his emotions, with a skill that is as disconcerting as it is appealing. When he finally realises that there is no reason, the disappointment of it coats his mouth with bitter ashes, sits on his tongue like a pill that won’t melt.
The truth is that John wants Harold to want something from him. The truth is that Harold doesn’t. He wants nothing more than what John is already giving.
By the time John is bleeding to death courtesy of his former colleagues he is selfishly grateful about the prospect of doing so in Harold’s arms, on the backseat of his car, bracketed by his hands as he pushes the gurney into the morgue.
By the time Harold stops the bomb strapped to his chest John wants him to just keep on digging through wires and cloth and bone until he gets to John’s heart, to just take what is already his.
He is so focussed on it that he doesn’t even notice the way Harold’s hands shake as he helps John get rid of the vest, his breath coming in harsh staccato that sounds like ‘Christ, Christ, Christ’, a prayer huffed out at every exhale. They make it out of the building, evading cops and taking a long route home, changing taxis three times to be sure. The last cab drops them six blocks from the library and they are both exhausted by the time they get there; Harold from the sheer physical effort of the long walk and the longer day preceding it, and John from being away so long he wants nothing more than to fall to his knees next to the stacks and press his face against the dusty book spines.
“Here,” Harold says, and his hands are on John’s back again, pushing him toward the side room with a bed, gentle and insistent and John goes, of course he does, wherever Harold’s touch leads him.
The bed sheets smell clean and John doesn’t want to dirty them so he sits down hesitantly, folding his hands into his lap to keep them out of the way. He knows he’s zoning, body and mind pushed just that tiny bit too far today, and while his eyes track Harold’s movements across the room he doesn’t really take in their meaning until it’s too late.
“Alright, let’s just…” Harold says, pulling John’s coat off his shoulders, tossing it over a nearby chair. Then his hands return, fingers hesitating on John’s shirt buttons, eyes flicking up to meet his.
John holds his breath. It takes forever for him to understand that Harold is waiting for a permission because the whole concept is so ridiculous, as if John would refuse him anything, least of all this. He exhales shakily, feeling big and clumsy under Harold’s deft fingers, and nods.
Harold looks at him for a few seconds more and then nods too though mostly to himself it seems before dropping his gaze John’s shirt buttons, easing them through the eyelets one by one. John watches Harold’s face, mapping each bruise and abrasion he finds by his expression, hard and angry at first, and then soft, soft, soft, full of something fierce and helpless that makes John’s spine straighten despite his exhaustion.
“John,” Harold says. “John.” He lays his hands flat against John’s chest like a benediction, like a promise, and John shudders.
“Stay here,” Harold tells him, getting up with difficulty from where he’s been sitting next to him on the bed, body twisted awkwardly in a way it no longer wants to bend. John fights the urge to say he can get it, whatever it is, and stays.
Harold is back a few minutes later with a damp cloth and a first aid kit. Methodically, he cleans and dresses John’s injuries, stripping off his shirt entirely in the process.
It’s almost too much; Harold’s hands all over his chest and back, knuckles brushing against his stomach, fingers palpating his ribs, and John fights to stay still, his breath hitching on a swallowed moan.
“It’s alright, John,” Harold says, “it’s alright.” He touches the back of his neck then, a firm deliberate press of his palm that settles on John’s skin like a brand, and John falls to his knees, folds down to the floor, his head coming to rest against Harold’s legs.
“I’ve got you now,” Harold says, his voice shaking, hand never leaving the back of John’s neck while the fingers of the other one card through his hair in slow steady strokes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t… But I’ve got you now.”
John buries his face in Harold’s lap and lets himself believe, lets himself trust, what Harold is saying, not just with his words but with his touch.
***
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
on 2015-01-25 01:04 pm (UTC)brilliant
no subject
on 2015-01-25 03:10 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2015-01-25 01:10 pm (UTC)I cannot convey enough YES for lines like
beg for Harold to rewrite his code until he’s whole again, until he’s fixed.
and
He wants nothing more than what John is already giving.
You've summed up this relationship beautifully.
no subject
on 2015-01-25 04:03 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2015-01-25 02:20 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2015-01-25 04:19 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2015-01-25 03:30 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2015-01-25 04:03 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2015-01-25 05:42 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2015-01-25 06:43 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2015-01-25 07:46 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2015-01-25 08:36 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2015-01-26 03:47 am (UTC)I miss the earliest seasons of this show and it's lovely to see fic being written for them again.
John really did need to learn to trust again and I love the way you capture how Harold did it here which was by simply being Harold.
Thanks. :D
no subject
on 2015-01-26 06:19 pm (UTC)Thank you so much for your great comments. I agree, Harold doesn't try which is why I think it takes him so long to realised that he's succeeded anyway :D
no subject
on 2015-01-27 04:37 am (UTC)Thank you so much for sharing. This fic is definitely going on my list of favorites. :)
no subject
on 2015-01-27 09:56 am (UTC)no subject
on 2015-09-10 02:33 am (UTC)no subject
on 2015-09-14 08:52 am (UTC)That is to say: THANK YOU!
no subject
on 2015-12-03 01:30 pm (UTC)sorry for the long time difference.
on 2015-12-04 02:47 am (UTC)Re: sorry for the long time difference.
on 2015-12-04 09:45 am (UTC)And I'm sorry you're feeling like John here and hope you will one day find your Harold too. I'm sure they are waiting somewhere...